


In Seven Steps

by bluebottle762



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebottle762/pseuds/bluebottle762
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I never thought I'd love you, but when I did, you'd always known. I never thought you'd leave, but now you are, and I can't bear it. Counting out the steps it takes to walk us back to the bed we loved in, each staggering pace another memory, bright and painful. I always knew you'd break my heart, you beautiful bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Seven Steps

It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, not by a long shot, and yet he still felt a flash of dull panic rush through him every time Fáelan allowed him to remember where they were exactly. It wasn’t like they were in the middle of a crowded room filled with onlookers; they weren’t openly inviting attention, but the rotunda was when all said and done, an open space. Public, or semi-public, he supposed. It was hardly ever bustling with activity like the main hall or the courtyard, but still, they could be seen. That was new. Painfully, heart hammeringly new. To be so open, so blasé in their affections—he’d be lying if he said it didn’t blow his mind even a little. Not that they were being particularly risqué in the scheme of things, but even the smallest of affectionate indications between men had been cause for considerate eyebrow raising back home. Here, no one seemed to care, so long as you didn’t do it in their breakfast. Not that they were having sex. That too, was new and different. Dorian wasn’t an innocent (and by all accounts neither was Fáelan. And there were many accounts to be had, if you listened to his brother.) and he felt he was experienced enough to know how this should go. Fact of the matter was, it had been weeks since their initial kiss upon returning to Skyhold from Redcliffe, and they had yet to get beyond, well… _This_.

An impatient little hum passed his lips as Fáelan broke the kiss, the faintest hint of a smile only just detectable in the soft brush of his lips against Dorian’s cheek before they moved on to pay firmer attention to his jaw. The thrill of it sent a plume of warmth through his chest, dispersing like coloured ink in water, adding new life to the previously blank canvas of his ribs. Whether he’d never let this bloom, or it had simply never existed before he didn’t know. What was important was the here and now- the man currently filling his bones with vibrant colour, free from the sketch work of old hands; an abstract master piece under his touch, each time a different shape and shade. It was both liberating and terrifying in equal parts. He adored every second of it.

Opening his eyes, he stole a brief glance at Fáelan’s face, or at least, what he could make of it at this angle. Tilting his head to allow him graceful passage down his throat—chasing his pulse through the artery—Dorian took a moment to inspect the intricate lines of ink, mere inches away from his face. To Dorian they looked like branches; an interwoven botanical blue lace work following the curve of his cheek bones, spanning up over his temples and down the long bridge of his nose, another faint line crossing his lips and chin. They were representative of one of his gods, he remembered, and it dawned on him now that he’d never stopped to ask which one. No doubt that was something important to Fáelan, meaningful enough to take into his skin, for all of Thedas to see, and for that reason alone Dorian should know what they meant. He’d only heard Fáelan speak of his faith once, half a conversation that had floated up to him from the floor below, the closest thing to an argument he’d ever heard from between the two elves, who were otherwise close.

It felt odd to examine them when Fáelan was paying attention, an undeniable tug of guilt at his own ignorance and alienation of Fáelan's culture that was difficult to supress. The issue would be addressed eventually, he knew. They’d already touched on it a handful of times, always slowly, always somewhat indirectly, and never on a personal level, but that had been before. Now it lingered at the back of Dorian’s mind like a dark fish in a pond. There had already been talk of controlling intent on his part, he knew. If Fáelan had caught wind of these rumours he hadn’t shown any sign that he cared, although Dorian suspected Josephine would do her very best to keep them a good distance from him for as long as she could. The meddling mother, however…

A scrape of teeth against his collar bone caused a shudder to run the length of his spine, his eyes sliding shut once more. As always, Fáelan restored precious light, diluting murky thoughts enough to make them clear again, at least for a short while. He probably didn’t even realise. Pressing a hand to the small of Fáelan’s back, he allowed himself a subtle roll of the hips in way of testing out their boundaries. It pleased him greatly to find Fáelan pushing back without a hint of hesitation, the hand on his shoulder sliding down to brace against his chest.

“Do you have a little time?” Dorian felt the sigh rather than heard it, and watched, heart sinking, as Fáelan straightened up to look at him. If he’d been younger and less experienced with disappointment, he might have bitten his lip to keep the anxiety in. As it was, his face simply fell into a well-practiced sort of neutrality. Still close, Fáelan pressed one last, somewhat lingering kiss to his lips before pulling back enough to answer.

“Josephine’s expecting me in the war room.” Fáelan spoke with a slightly wistful air, brushing down Dorian’s jaw with the back of his hand like a soft apology. Automatically, Dorian longed to mimic the gesture, to cradle his face and run the pad of his thumb along the knotted scar that curved across the plane of his cheek. _Yet another thing to ask about_. He resisted. The guilt riddled fear of offending through ignorance still bubbling away inside him like the concoction of some socially spiteful alchemist. Despite himself, he managed a smile, dropping his head to one side again as he relinquished his hold on Fáelan’s waist, letting him move away as he pleased.

“Go on, ‘The Evil Tevinter’ can’t waste _all_ of your time, can he. You’d mess up the itinerary otherwise.” He’d meant it in jest, which Fáelan knew perfectly well, but still he was met with a frown as the Inquisitor took a reluctant half-step back, the bridge of his nose crinkling in that specific way which always made Dorian feel at least a little gleeful. “Nine to ten-thirty, meet with outraged Ferelden dignitaries, ten-forty-five to half past one, talks with the Orlesian ambassador. Two o’clock, grind against the _devilishly attractive_ mage in the rotunda. Two-thirty, war table.” Although he was still frowning, Dorian didn’t miss the little flicker at the corner of Fáelan’s mouth.

“Seven-fifty” He took another step back, the smile he’d been fighting winning out and cracking his expression into one of smug amusement, the tips of his ears twitching up as he smiled. “Meet with aforementioned mage for wine and dinner.”

The anxiety in his chest slowly melting away, Dorian flashed him a grin of his own, raising his eyebrows as he folded his arms across his chest.

“Is that so?” Fáelan’s smile broadened enough to turn the tips of his ears even higher.

“See you later, Dorian.”


End file.
